A Kick to the Head
by withdraw
Summary: When Sam and Spike are captured during a call, the rest of the team race to find them. Rated for violence and mature themes, please see author's notes for specific content warnings.
1. Chapter 1

A Kick to the Head

Warnings: Kidnapping, flogging, foot flogging, non-consensual drug use, violence. That said, the best I can describe this is a gen casefic, hurt/comfort without the comfort. It's not super gory.

* * *

Sam woke slowly, into the grip of a pounding headache. He blinked, trying to focus. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his head and chest. Something had happened, an explosion maybe, and now something was very, very wrong. He was sitting in a chair and couldn't figure out how he got there.

He stood up, only to jerk to a stop halfway when his arms pulled at his shoulders. He sat again abruptly to peer at them. He was tied to a chair, he realized. His wrists and ankles were wrapped tightly with rough rope. He pulled at them irritably. The rope cut into his wrists. He would be bloody soon if he didn't stop.

He stilled and breathed slowly, reaching for the quiet that would allow him to concentrate. Sam pushed the headache backward into a steady throb, steadfastly refused to vomit at the sudden nausea and brought the world into focus.

He was in a cement room, dim and grimy, though a high window let in the weak winter light. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor. He had lost his gear and was down to his t-shirt— not enough to keep him warm in the cold, cement room. A table stood on the far side of the room next to the door and on his right, Spike was tied to a second chair.

Sam's eyes fell on Spike with a jolt. Spike's wrists were tied in a similar manner to Sam's, but his feet were bare, propped on a metal box in front of him. At his ankles, Sam saw the glitter of metal cuffs. He had been stripped of his jacket and shirt and his pale chest seemed to gleam in the dim light. A thin plastic tube wound from the crook of one elbow up to an IV bag that hung above his head on a metal stand. He sat with his head tipped back, limp in the chair. A chill crept through Sam at the sight.

"Spike!" he called as quietly but as urgently as he could. Spike stirred sluggishly at the sound. He managed to raise his head and look in Sam's direction, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

"Lou?" Spike whispered. He sounded low and harsh, like he could barely coordinate his tongue with his lips.

"No, it's me. It's Sam." Sam pulled at the restraints again and the rope dug a little deeper into his wrists.

"Oh." Then Spike opened his eyes fully, sat a little straighter and seemed to come back to himself. "What happened? Where's Jules?"

"I don't know. Not here at least. I think there was an explosion. A bomb." He had a vague memory of being the first one through the door, then of Spike tackling him. He shook his head to try and concentrate, but stopped when it brought the headache back. He looked at Spike again. In the short time it took him to answer, Spike was already slipping away, head tipping back, eyes closing.

"Spike!" Sam called again. Spike jerked upright. "What do they have you hooked up to?"

Spike peered up at the IV bag, brow furrowed as he tried to focus.

"Dunno," he said at last. "Can't read."

Sam's stomach seemed to be made of lead and ice. Spike could always read. He read like it was an Olympic sport, fast and accurate. Sam breathed evenly, pushing the panic down.

Spike suddenly seemed to realize he was tied to the chair. He tried to pull his wrists away with a confused, inarticulate noise. When he couldn't pull away, he yanked harder and Sam began to worry that he would seriously injure himself.

"Don't pull, Spike. It's okay, just calm down."

"No," Spike said. "No, no, no, no!" With each negative, he got louder and more insistent, until he was shouting and throwing himself back into the chair and Sam was shouting too, to sit still or he would break his wrists.

The door banged open. A large man with wild, black hair stepped into the room. He was tall, taller even than Ed, Sam thought, and bound in muscle. He had a whip in one hand and a gun tucked into his waistband. Sam stilled and sat silent, but Spike didn't notice. He was still tugging and yelling.

The man strode to Spike and fiddled with the IV, speeding up the drip.

"Enough of that," the man said calmly. Slowly, Spike subsided and slumped, head lolling to one side. Sam gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white, trying to steady himself. He needed to talk now, he knew. This was his moment to try and connect. But what did he say? How did the boss talk down all those guys with guns?

"I'm Sam," he said. "Can you tell me why we're here?"

The man looked at him. There was something unnerving in his eyes, a cold, steady blankness that made Sam shiver.

"You are here because I need you," the man said. "And you friend is here as a…bonus."

Spike was in greater danger than Sam originally thought. The man said _bonus_, but Sam knew what he really meant was _expendable_.

"What do you need from me?" Sam asked. "Maybe I can help you."

"I need you to be quiet," the man said. He turned away and began to leave. Sam couldn't let him go. If he couldn't get the man talking now, he didn't think he would have another chance.

"I want to help," Sam said. "I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."

The man turned, his face a mask of fury, and let the whip uncoil at his side. There was a crack and an angry red weal appeared on the soles of Spike's bare feet. Spike jerked with a cry, wrenched back into his body by the pain. Another crack and a second mark bloomed across his bare chest. Spike choked, writhing and thrashing in the chair. A third crack rang out and another mark appeared on Spike's feet. Spike screamed and threw himself forward, trying to curl into himself as much as he could, caught between the pain pulling him upwards and the drugs pulling him down. He stayed there, whimpering and incoherent, while the man recoiled his whip.

"Quiet," the man said. He was calm again.

The man walked away and Sam sat rigid in the chair, thin-lipped and silent.

* * *

The farmhouse was quaint and picturesque in the half melted snow. Greg stood by the cluster of SUV's as Ed split the team: Ed and Wordy to inspect the barn, Spike, Jules and Sam to knock on the door. Greg hung back to monitor and study the map. He was just thinking that this call—a possible domestic with gunshots reported— might wrap up early when something exploded. He winced as the blast squealed through his earpiece.

"Everyone, report!" he called. He peered toward the sound. The front door to the house billowed with dust. Jules lay on the ground, thrown by the explosion. She stirred as he watched. Wordy and Ed called in almost on top of each other, sounding confused but steady, followed by Jules a second later with a breathless "no harm." Another moment passed before they all realized Spike and Sam hadn't called in.

"Jules, do you have eyes on Spike and Sam?" he asked. Jules picked herself up from the ground and tried to dust herself off. Behind her, the front door to the farmhouse was a mess of wood and splinters. The bomb must have been planted almost on the threshold. Did Sam trip it, he wondered, or had someone set it off by hand?

Jules stepped cautiously to the door, then shook her head.

"No, but there's a lot of debris. They might be buried."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ed and Wordy come out of the barn and start jogging over to join him.

Suddenly, he heard the crunch of wheels skidding on gravel from behind the farmhouse. Ed cursed and bolted for the back of the house. By the time he got there though, the noise of tires was already fading.

"White van," he reported. "Parked in the back and took off through the field." Greg checked his map. There was another road on the other side of the field.

"Plates?" Greg asked. Ed cursed again.

"Couldn't see them. I'll check out the field."

"Copy." Greg gestured for Wordy to join him. Wordy nodded and set off at a sprint.

"Winnie, we need video for the nearest traffic cameras. White van. And put Team Three on standby." He had this creeping feeling like the situation was worse than he realized, like things were about to go sideways, more than it already had.

Winnie acknowledged and Greg eyed the map again. They were far enough into the country that there weren't any traffic cameras nearby. They wouldn't be caught on camera unless they headed directly for the city, and Greg doubted that would happen.

"Jules, I'm coming to you," he said.

"No!" She turned, hand outstretched to stop him, even though he was 20 feet away. "There might be another explosive. Let me check first." Greg met her eyes for a moment. He wondered if she had the same memory he did, of Spike, calm and amused, saying _never more than one man down range, you know that_.

"Careful, Jules," he said at last. "And report as soon as you see Sam or Spike." She nodded and started picking through the debris in the door way.

"Boss." Ed's voice came over the earpiece. His voice sounded strained. "Boss, we found something." A moment later both Ed and Wordy appeared around the side of the house, heading for him at a sprint. They slowed as they got nearer and stopped in front of him.

They didn't say anything. Ed held out one hand, where he held two sets of ear pieces. They were broken and crumpled, like they'd been thrown out of a window and driven over. Wordy had two phones, surprisingly pristine except for the dirt that clung to them. Greg stared. That creeping feeling returned full grown, except things hadn't gone sideways, they had gone sideways, backwards and upside down all at once.

Greg felt like he was floating on a strange calmness, as he realized Jules might be searching for their teammates, but she wouldn't find them.

"Winnie, I need Team Three out here as soon as possible. And put out an APB for Spike and Sam," he said. He didn't listen for her answer. He needed a moment to breathe. Ed and Wordy were watching him. Ed's jaw was clenched and Wordy looked stricken. Behind them, Jules sat down on the steps of the house with a thump and put her head in her hands.

"Alright team," Greg ground out. "New deal."


	2. Chapter 2

A Kick to the Head

Chapter 2

* * *

Sam's hands were starting to go numb. He flexed his fingers, trying to help the blood move. After the man had left, Sam found himself focusing on the steady drip of the IV into Spike's elbow. Spike never sat up again after that last lash. He stayed hunched, bent in half with his head almost to his knees. Only his hands tied to the chair kept him from collapsing entirely. Sam couldn't take his eyes away. He watched the slight rise and fall of Spike's back that meant he was still breathing.

Sam's headache returned, bringing with it a crushing fatigue, but he couldn't let himself sleep. Spike was unconscious, or asleep, or maybe so high he couldn't tell his ass from a teakettle, and Sam knew that one of them needed to be alert. So he narrowed his focus and willed himself awake.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, Spike unmoving and Sam counting his breaths. At some point, Spike started shivering. Sam clenched his muscles, trying to keep his blood moving and stave off the creeping cold.

The door opened again. The man didn't have the whip this time. Instead he held a phone to his ear.

"Very well," the man said into the phone. "Here is your proof." He tapped at the phone, activating the speakerphone. He held it out to Sam so he could be heard, then took his free hand and drew his gun, pointing it at Spike's head.

"One word answers," the man said.

"Samuel?" asked Sam's father. Sam wrenched his eyes from Spike and stared at the phone. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't his father.

"Yes," Sam answered.

"I've been told you have been captured. Is this true?"

"Yes."

His father sighed. Sam had to close his eyes for a second at the sound. Most people would have taken that sigh as annoyed, but Sam knew it was the only sound of distress his father allowed himself. He could still remember being nine years old, standing on his own front step with a policeman's hand on one shoulder and his sister's shoes in his hands. His father had listened, pulled Sam to his side and sighed, a heavy, despairing sound.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the man put his finger on the trigger.

"No."

"Are you alone? Is your team with you?" Sam had to pause for a moment to think up one word.

"Spike," he said. He didn't think it would mean anything to his father, but he hoped it would be enough to tip him off to contact his team.

"I see," his father said, though Sam knew he probably didn't. "And do you know what this is about?"

"No."

"Then it's time for me to talk with the man in charge again."

The man cut the speakerphone, stuffed the gun back into his waistband and walked away. Sam heard him say "Listen carefully, your son's life depends on it" before the door closed behind him.

Sam made himself relax muscle by muscle. With the door closed, he found his eyes drawn inexorably to Spike. As he watched, Spike's breath became slower and shallower, harder to spot.

The door opened and the man came in again. He threw the phone down on the table and placed the gun beside it, then sat down on the edge. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, not bothering to look at his two hostages. Sam waited until he was half-way through the cigarette and looked a bit settled.

"Could you sit my friend upright? I'm worried about his breathing," Sam asked quietly. The man looked over at them, uninterested, then made a half shrug motion and stood. He went to Spike and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him up until Spike was sitting with his head tipped back. Spike's eyes were half open. They wandered, unable to settle on anything and focus, not even the man's face right in front of him. He was pale and sweaty, still shivering. Sam tried not to look at the angry red stripe across his chest.

"Thanks. Any chance you could slow the IV?" The man let out an abrupt, barking laugh.

"I don't think so," he said. "Not when it keeps him quiet and you under control." Sam tried to keep the annoyance off his face. It was true, but he hoped it hadn't occurred to their captor.

"I know my father pretty well," he said instead. "If you're willing to go this far to get something from him, you must have a really good reason."

The man's eyes narrowed as he dragged on the cigarette again. He exhaled in a long, thin stream of smoke and Sam realized he'd lost the settled look from before. Sam swallowed, suddenly nervous, and couldn't stop his eyes from darting quickly to Spike and back again. The man laughed.

"Yeah, a really good reason," he said. "Stop talking."

He ground the cigarette out with his heel and stalked away, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

It was a trap. Not only that, Greg concluded, it was a well laid trap, and it had worked. Once the team had realized Sam and Spike were missing, they had torn the place apart, but there was nothing to find. The farmhouse was abandoned and coming apart at the seams. It had four walls, half of a roof and absolutely nothing in between.

Greg was standing just inside the front door with the rest of the team in a huddle, surveying the destruction from the bomb and trying to think of something—_anything_— to go on when Winnie cut in on the radio.

"Boss?" she said. "I have Sam's father here, says he wants to know where his son is." Greg shared a confused look with Jules.

"You mean he knows Sam is missing?" he asked.

"Sounds like it," Winnie confirmed.

"Alright, patch him through. I want you all listening in on this," he added to the rest of the team. His earpiece crackled as Winnie connected the call.

"General Braddock? This is Sergeant Parker with the Strategic Response Unit."

"Sergeant Parker," Sam's father said in greeting. "Am I correct in assuming that you have lost my son?" Greg paused. He couldn't bring himself to admit to that out loud.

"How do you know that?" he asked instead.

"A man called. He let me talk to Samuel as proof of life. I'm afraid I didn't get much information though, Samuel's responses were limited." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jules writing on a piece of paper. She held it up so he could see the _When?_ scrawled across the top.

"And when was that, sir?" he asked with a nod to Jules.

"About 10 minutes ago." Wordy shot him a thumbs up and turned away, clicking his radio onto a different setting so he wouldn't interrupt them.

"And did they have any demands?" They must have, Greg thought to himself. They wouldn't have called if they didn't have demands. They would have just killed Sam and been done with it.

"Yes. About a month ago, a special forces unit was deployed to eliminate a growing terrorist cell in the city. He wants the names and locations of everyone involved. Sergeant Parker," he paused and for the first time, Greg heard a hint of desperation bleeding into his voice. "That is not something I am able to provide."

"No, of course not," Greg agreed. Ed grabbed the paper from Jules. When he held it up, Greg saw that he had written _Spike?!_ in big blocky letters, underlined it twice and circled it.

"General, did Sam say anything else? Anything about another hostage?"

"When I asked him if his team was with him, he said 'spike.'" From the way he said it, Greg could tell this meant nothing to Sam's father. Jules snatched the paper from Ed and scribbled furiously. "Does this help you?"

"It does. Spike— Constable Scarlatti— is one of my team." He read Jules' scribbles while talking. "Constable Callahan tells me he tackled Sam to get him away from a blast. Constable Scarlatti is our bomb tech. He has a nose for explosives."

"Then I owe him a debt," Sam's father said. "How can I help you?"

"I'm sending a team to pick you up." Greg gestured to his earpiece and Jules nodded. She wrote _T3 to Sam's dad_ on the paper and turned to hand it to Wordy. "If they call back, I want you to stall. Don't say no or yes. Tell them you're working on it but it'll take a while. Just try and slow them down."

"Understood," Sam's father said, and hung up. Wordy came over to join them again, nodding absently as he listened to his headset and making notes on the paper.

"Winnie says Donna is on her way to pick him up," he reported. "The rest of team three will be here soon. Where's the map?"

Greg led them all back outside to the cluster of SUVs and spread the map over the hood. Wordy started marking a wide circle, explaining as he worked.

"The bomb exploded at 8:15 and Ed saw the van drive away a couple minutes later. General Braddock says he got a call 10 minutes ago." Wordy checked his watch. "15, now. Let's assume they drove at top speed and didn't stop. Which means they were on the circle when they called. And if they stopped before they called, they're somewhere inside."

"That's a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of ifs and maybes," Ed said. He had that slightly distracted look like when he was working on a plan. Wordy shrugged helplessly. Ed was right, but there wasn't anything they could do about it.

"Okay then," Ed continued, nodding as he came to a decision. "When Team Three gets here, we split up. Every barn, every house, every chicken coop, I want them all searched."

"We'll find them," he added decisively. "They are out there and we will find them. They just have to hold on until we get there."


	3. Chapter 3

A Kick to the Head Chapter 3

* * *

It was hard to say how much time passed. There was nothing to mark its passing except the light filtering through the high window and Sam didn't find that very helpful. All he could really say was that it wasn't night yet.

The door opened. Sam eyed the man warily. The whip was back and he was on the phone again. He paced back and forth in front of the door, slapping the coiled whip restlessly against his thigh as he listened to the phone.

Sam had the sudden, penetrating thought that this wasn't going to go well.

The man said something to the phone, just below the level where Sam could make it out. As he listened to the answer, he stopped pacing and drifted towards them. He looked Sam up and down, then moved to Spike.

"I think you're lying. I think you're stalling," he said. His voice rose with each word. He sounded loud and frustrated.

As he spoke, he tucked his phone into his shoulder and used his free hand to lift one of Spike's eyelids, peering into his unseeing eye and then pressed a finger into the red lash across his chest.

Spike stirred and whimpered, a soft, small sound that Sam almost couldn't hear.

"Please stop," Sam said, without thinking.

It was funny the things you noticed, Sam thought, when everything was going to hell. At the sound of his voice, the man turned to him in a fury. Sam found himself looking at the phone. It was still connected, he realized. Then the man raised his arm and backhanded him.

Sam's world reeled. His lip split and his mouth filled with blood. The room spun and spun and Sam couldn't get it to stop. He felt sick and the nausea built until he had to lean over and throw up all over his boots. He closed his eyes tight and clutched the arms of the chair, trying to hold on to anything stable. The whip cracked and the noise level rose suddenly. Sam couldn't figure out what was happening.

Spike, his mind supplied. Each crack of the whip dragged a cry out of Spike that was half sob, half scream.

He tried to open his eyes and threw up again.

"Stop," he found himself panting. "Please stop. Please just stop." Sam wasn't sure who he was talking to, himself or the man with the whip. Silence fell, broken only by Spike's ragged breathing and Sam retching.

"Disgusting," he heard the man sneer. His footsteps receded and Sam heard him scuffling around beyond the room.

Slowly, Sam's world stabilized. He pushed himself up inch by inch, not daring to move his head one way or another. He stayed still a minute, collecting himself, then blinked.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the man douse him with a bucket of water.

Sam gasped as the water hit him. It was icy cold and what little warmth he had disappeared. It plastered his hair to his head and seeped into his clothes, puddling in his boots. It was like falling through ice into a frozen lake—so cold he found it hard to breathe. Another bucket followed the first, leaving Sam spluttering and thoroughly soaked.

Sam blinked water out of his eyes. He shivered, a bone shaking shiver that wouldn't stop.

Bright white light blinked suddenly, like a camera flash. Sam winced.

When he refocused, the man was leaning against the door jamb, breathing deeply like he was trying to calm down. He clutched the phone in one hand and looked at it every minute or two, like he was expecting a call.

"Don't worry," the man called to him. "The end is near. It will be over soon."

_Hurry_, Sam thought as he shivered. _Hurry guys, please._

* * *

Ed was right. It took time to cover that much area. Greg sent Ed, Wordy and Team Three to start banging down doors while he and Jules waited for Donna and Sam's father.

Donna arrived in a spray of gravel. She threw the car into park and was out before the engine had even stopped. Sam's father followed more slowly. General Braddock wasn't a large man, but he moved with authority and a controlled grace that told you he knew how to wield that authority.

"He called," Donna said. "We just lost him." Sam's father nodded.

"I recorded the call, if you'd like to listen," he added. He handed the phone to Jules, who took it and pressed play, holding it out so everyone could hear.

"So, do you have what I want? Do you value your son's life?" a male voice asked.

"I'm working on it." They heard Sam's father answer. "It's going to take some time. The request needs to go through official channels if you don't want any suspicion."

"I don't believe you." The male voice rose into a shout, losing control. "I think you're lying. I think you're stalling."

There was a soft noise they couldn't make out. All four of them leaned in to listen more closely, then they heard Sam saying "Please stop." The call erupted with a sudden crash of noises, the sound of flesh connecting with flesh followed by a wet splatter, then the recording cut out abruptly.

"What was that last part?" Jules asked with a frown. "Sounded like Sam throwing up."

"Yes," his father agreed. "Probably concussed. It wouldn't be his first."

The phone buzzed in Jules' hand with an incoming text.

"Oh god," she said softly. She looked away, pale, and held the phone out for Greg to take.

It was a picture. On the right, Sam sat, tied hand and foot to a metal chair. He was soaking wet, his mouth bright red with blood. He had a head wound and his face was mottled with bruising. He was looking in the direction of the camera, but not at it, with a dazed, unfocused look. Water pooled under him, mixed with vomit.

On the left was Spike. Greg suddenly understood Jules' reaction. Spike was stripped of all but his pants. His bare feet and chest were crisscrossed with lacerations, oozing blood and turning him into a mess of red. A disembodied hand reached over from the edge of the picture and grabbed his hair, holding his head up for the camera, because it was clear Spike was unable to do so himself.

Another text popped up. _Don't underestimate me_, Greg read.

Donna reached over and tapped the picture, drawing Greg's attention to the IV.

"I see it," he muttered to her. He fumbled with his radio.

"Ed," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Eddie, we need to speed this up."

"Copy," Ed replied. "How fast are we talking here?"

"As fast as possible."

Greg tuned his radio again, not waiting for Ed's response.

"Winnie, I need EMS on the way. No lights, no sirens. Got it?"

"Copy," she said.

Donna grabbed at the phone and Greg let her take it, glad to be rid of it.

"Those look like whip marks," she said. Sam's father looked at the picture over her shoulder and nodded. Greg hated him a little for it, that he could look at Spike and be analytical.

"We're in farmland," Sam's father offered. Jules shook her head.

"Most farmers only use whips for noise. If they hit something it's usually an accident. These are even and controlled. This guy knows what he's doing."

"Okay," Greg said. "Donna, send the phone recording to Winnie. There's a club that practices with whips in city. Have her see if the organizer can identify the voice."

Jules shot him a look, surprised and incredulous.

"I'm a fount of knowledge," he said to her sourly. On another day, it would have been fun to drop that tidbit on his team and watch them react. Today though, he wanted nothing to do with it.

He sent Jules with Donna to go help knock on doors and took General Braddock with him to meet up with Ed.

Winnie called in about ten minutes later, while they were still driving.

"John Stavish," she said without preamble. "But the club organizer said he hadn't seen him in a little over a month. No priors, but the organizer did say he has a temper. Divorced, has one son. Uhhhh," she paused as she read. "Correction. Had a son. Miles Stavish. I have a date of death for him recorded a month and a half ago."

"Thanks Winnie. Any known addresses nearby?" Greg asked.

"Negative. He's been in the city his whole life."

Greg looked sideways at Sam's father. Things were starting to add up, he just needed a little confirmation.

"Does the name Miles Stavish mean anything to you?" Greg asked him. Sam's father didn't need to say anything. Greg could see the answer written on his face and the way he tensed in his seat.

"Let me guess," Greg went on. "He was part of the terrorist cell. And you led the operation to remove it. Now his father wants revenge on the people who killed his son, and he's taken _your_ son hostage to get it." Yes, it made sense. And Spike had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe Stavish hadn't known which officer was Sam in the confusion after the blast, or maybe he saw an opportunity and took it. But it explained a lot, Greg thought grimly.

"Alright everyone, listen up," he said to his radio.

"There's no negotiation on this one. If you have the solution, then take it."


	4. Chapter 4

A Kick to the Head

Chapter 4

Notes: This is the last chapter. It ended up being shorter than expected. There is a sequel planned, but no guarantee when it will be up.

* * *

After Greg and General Braddock joined Ed, it took three more houses before they found something. A woman opened the door.

"A white van?" she asked, taking in their uniforms. "Yes, I saw it this morning. It was all over the road. I thought about calling the police, but it takes so long for them to get out here."

Greg nodded, trying to keep his impatience in check.

"Did you see where it was going?" he asked. The woman leaned, pointing up the road.

"It took the next turn. It must have been going to the abandoned slaughterhouse. That's the only thing up there."

Ed turned and took off for his car, already calling in the location to the rest of the team. Greg stayed a moment to thank the woman then followed him. He told Winnie to redirect EMS and climbed in next to General Braddock, following Ed's car onto the main road.

"When we get there, I need you to stay outside and let my team do their job," he said to Sam's father. "Donna will stay with you. I'm going to need you to make a call. It'll help distract Stavish while my team gets into position."

The general nodded.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. Greg gripped the wheel and pressed the pedal into the floor.

"I want you to tell him to go to hell."

* * *

It was getting harder to stay awake. Sam had stopped shivering a while ago, but he didn't feel any warmer. A small part of his mind knew that wasn't a good sign, but he couldn't bring himself to care too much. It would be nice, he thought, to close his eyes and just drift. Only Spike kept him clinging to consciousness. He found he couldn't watch Spike breathe anymore, but he checked in every couple of minutes— long enough to catch a breath and then his eyes slid away.

The man hadn't left the room. He sat on the table and swung his legs, a childish movement incongruous with the events of the day. Sam stared dully at the floor and felt himself slipping slowly into a warm, comforting dark.

The man's phone rang. Underneath the ringing, Sam heard a soft clinking sound against the window. The man didn't hear it. He didn't know what to listen for and the phone held his attention, but that small noise was enough to help Sam wrench himself into wakefulness one last time.

"Well?" the man demanded. "Do you love your son or not? You're time's up." As he listened to the response from Sam's father, Sam thought he heard a shuffling behind the closed door. Whatever his father said, the man didn't like it. He grabbed the gun from the table and strode towards Sam.

"Do you think I won't kill him? Because I will," he yelled at the phone. "I will kill him and it will be your fault!" He stopped in the middle of the room to listen again, and a stillness crept over him.

"Very well," he said. He pointed the gun at Sam's head. "Say goodbye to your son."

The window exploded, followed by the door crashing off its hinges. Two figures dropped from the window and five streamed through the door in a wave of gunfire and black fury. The man collapsed to the ground, blood welling from a hole in his head.

People flowed around and past him. Sam saw Ed rush to Spike and then Jules was in front of him. He could tell she was talking because her lips were moving, but Sam couldn't hear what she was saying. The whole world had gone strangely silent. Jules hovered in front of him, face creased with worry.

Sam looked up at her and smiled.

"You made it," he said. Then he closed his eyes and let himself surrender, finally, to the deep, welcoming void.

* * *

"Sam? Sam!"

Greg looked up from Stavish's dead body at Jules' call. Sam had slumped, head hanging. Jules felt his neck for a pulse.

"Oh god, he's frozen," she said. Suppressed tears made her voice unsteady. Wordy rushed to help her. He drew his tac knife and carefully began slicing through the cord around Sam's hands and feet.

On his other side, Ed plucked at Spike's bonds with his fingers, unable to get a purchase on the knot. Greg drew his own knife and pushed him aside, following Wordy's example.

"Ed, the keys," he said, indicating Stavish's body with a glance. Ed fell on the body, patting it down until he found the keys. He removed the cuffs from Spike's ankles. Under Greg's knife, the rope fell away. Ed reached for the IV, but Greg grabbed his hand, shaking his head. Then they both stopped, unable to do more for Spike without the medics present.

Without his hands tied, Sam had collapsed onto Jules, nearly taking her down. Wordy just barely managed to grab him and they eased him to the floor, as far from the spreading pool of blood as they could.

Team Three reported the building cleared and the medics came running in, splitting into two groups. The first group went to Sam, sliding him onto a stretcher and packing him with blankets. One peeled his eyes open to shine a light into them, while the others strapped him in and stabilized his head. Then they were gone, almost as quickly as they came, whisking Sam away with them.

"Jules, Wordy," Greg said. He jerked his head to indicate they should follow. "Make sure his father goes with him." They nodded and took off at a run.

The other group of medics swarmed Spike, pushing Ed and Greg to the side and out of the way. A woman examined the IV with a thin, worried frown. She slowed the drip, but didn't disconnect it. Instead, she pulled the bag from its stand and held it out of the way while two others gently pulled Spike out of his chair. He hung from their arms, limp as a rag doll, as they laid him on the stretcher.

It took longer to get Spike settled, since they couldn't strap him in across his chest. And just when they were finishing, one of the medics draped a blanket over his legs and the edge brushed his feet, causing Spike to squirm and cry out. Ed grabbed Greg by the shoulder, squeezing hard.

They followed the medics out of the building, into the clear air. It was like coming out of a cave, or waking up after a storm to a soft sunrise. Greg felt the weight of the day lift slightly. It was easier to breathe in the crisp cold air, now that he knew where his team was. Ed closed the ambulance doors and sent them off with a thump of his fist.

Greg went to Jules and slung an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, silent and exhausted. Ed and Wordy stood across from them, forming a little huddle. No one spoke. Outside their circle, controlled chaos swirled with the normal aftermath of a hot call. Finally, Ed took a deep breath.

"Hospital first," he said.

"Then coffee," Wordy agreed, finishing Ed's sentence for him. They turned, starting towards the SUVs. Greg started to join them, but Jules held him back. She looked up at him, eyes worried. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to.

"They'll be fine," Greg said. "We'll make sure of it."


End file.
